Perhaps In A Different Life
by MrTails
Summary: A collection of one-shot AU stories featuring Sherlock Holmes and John Watson  usually .
1. X Men Mutations

Perhaps in a Different Life

Introduction (explanation): This is a collection of completely unrelated one-shots. The rating varies, but that will probably be smut in at least one chapter (because everything ends in pwp with me) but I'll hold back on the rating until then. Bad language, of course, too. As far as plot wise, this is more of a writing exercise. I love Sherlock Holmes (of all kinds) and I love putting characters in different situations. These are all labeled by what AU they are, so feel free to skip about, they're completely unrelated. So far, I have no plans of making any of these multi-chaptered, but if I get enough people asking for it, I'll probably end up doing it (because I like to please people). I'll put warning labels per chapter, don't worry. Enjoy!

X-Men AU

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Language.

"What are you doing here freak?"

"I believe I was invited."

John Watson had no idea what was happening. He didn't know where he was or who he was with or what he was doing, but that was normal. He knew he knew a few seconds ago, but it was completely gone now.

"Why?" Alright. An irritated woman, not a good sign usually.

"I believe he wants me to take a look." A tall thin man. John could make the logical conclusion that he was with him considering the way they were standing together. Making bitter conversation with the police officer, it seemed, the man passed under the yellow tape and motioned him along. John followed habitually.

"Whoa. Who's this?"

"John Watson, a colleague." The taller man insisted. So they definitely knew each other. John held back the need to check his dog tags. Once he was alone, he'd check his wallet, as he always did in these circumstances, but it rarely helped in his short term memory. He'd never remember the last few days or so, but he'd learned to deal with it.

"You? A colleague? Did he follow you home?" She persisted. John stared at her blankly. He wasn't sure. Did he? This wasn't his new flat, was it? Someone had suggested a new flat mate for him, but again, he couldn't remember who or who they showed him to. He greatly hoped he hadn't done anything to warrant a police search all ready. He was rather good at keeping his mutation to himself and with the rising alert to keep the mutations at bay, it was essential that he didn't do anything to draw attention to himself.

"Shall I stay here then?" He suggested. At least then he'd be able to make sense of what he was doing. However, the taller male simply lifted the yellow banner and insisted him though. With his limp, he trudged along. Another man, this one dressed to prevent contamination.

"Anderson. You're wife away for long?" That was one name, at least. Not a helpful name, he was sure. He still had no idea who he was following.

"Oh, don't pretend like you figured that out. Someone told you."

"Your deodorant told me that." His 'colleague' stated cockily. Even John found it strange. What kind of situation had he gotten himself in?

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men!"

"Of course it's for bloody men. I'm wearing it."

"So is Donovan." He trudged past them with a smirk.

"I don't know what you're insinuating,"

"Oh. I'm sure little Sally just came over for a nice chat and scrubbed your floors judging by the state of her knees." Had he been picked up by another mutant? John supposed it was entirely possible. He hadn't been around any other mutants since his stay in the military and that had been more nerve wracking than anything. He wasn't a harm to anyone and he didn't want to harm anyone, but then again, a lot of people didn't believe that. It was best to keep things to himself. He aimlessly glanced down at the woman's knees with a curious smile and followed at the still nameless man.

Sherlock! Right. He was with Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective. The memories of the last few days flooded back in a fog of blurry edges and disoriented perspective. That was strange. That never happened to him. John couldn't recall a time when his memories ever came back on their own like that. As far as he knew, Sherlock wasn't a mutant, or rather, as far as he'd been told. He was simply and incredibly skilled human. He knew about his stay in Afghanistan, his sister, and even her wife and drinking habits. John feared for the worse. How long until the man realized what he was and was disgusted by him?

"Put this on." One of the men shoved a suit at him. Right, the murders. Sherlock had asked him to come along with his doctor skills to investigate the suicide murders. John tugged it on, though noticed that Sherlock did not. He remembered he was a strange man as well.

"Who the bloody hell is this?" A hand pushed against his chest, holding him back and John glanced over the older man curiously. He was pleased that they were as familiar with him as he was with them. Sherlock snapped the door closed behind him.

"John Watson. He's one of us."

"_You're _a mutant." The man scoffed. John's heart twisted worriedly. These were the police, after all. Hardly people to be trusting.

"I don't- "

"Don't deny it, John."

"Sherlock's a telepath." The older man grumbled with obvious displeasure. "Not that it makes him any less of a prick."

"I didn't think your memory loss was that bad." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly and John stared at him blankly. It was impossible to tell if he had really told his new flat mate about his memory loss. He, of all people, knew that one couldn't always trust one's own memories. It made life hard and often times unbearable, but John wouldn't have it any other way.

"I did that, you know. Gave it back to you."

"Uh. Thank you?"

"You don't sound too happy." The older man stated suspiciously. John was still making heads or tails of the situation.

"Well, generally memory loss is a good thing for me." He explained as calmly as possible.

"How could that possibly be a good thing?" He gruffed back.

"This is DI Lestrade. He electrocutes stuff." Sherlock explained.

"It's a mild static shock." Lestrade corrected.

"It's like twelve tasers."

"I tried to tell you not to touch me. That was your own damn fault."

"And I'm, if you remember correctly, Sherlock Holmes. Telepath and mild telekinesis."

"He's up to a billiard ball." Lestrade teased. The button zipper on his suit snapped up around his neck suddenly, giving a mild spark upon contact with his skin. Lestrade glared viciously at him, holding the zipper down off of his skin. John glanced between them a little wearily, but it seemed safe enough. He could remember times in the military where they would try to weed out the mutants from the humans. John wasn't sure what happened to them after that, but he was glad for his mutation in those times.

"So then, what is it you do?" The electric man prodded inquisitively.

"Mind your own bloody business, that's what!" The shorter man snapped suddenly, startling both of them. John's expression faded from rage to confusion in a few short seconds and he blinked blankly.

"What?" He questioned back with no explanation.

"Uh- your mutation?" Lestrade repeated.

"I," John began slowly. "Steal memories."

"As in-?"

"As in he could make you forget how to walk, talk, breather or think." Sherlock explained. He sounded overjoyed, actually.

"Not that I would do that!" John assured them quickly. "I mean, it's a lot more complex than that."

"Of course it is. It's far more than that. If I'm right, which I am of course, you can take memories, duplicate personalities, exchange memories, replace memories, and store them." He seemed to get more and more excited as he spoke. John wasn't sure if he should be worried or not. Had Sherlock taken that from his mind? Or was that an actual deduction?

"So you take people's memories and make them different?"

"I can't create memories, but I can switch them from person to person. I can give you Sherlock's memories and vice versa." John smiled rather shyly, but was relieved that neither of them seemed too put off. It had been a long time since he'd been with any other mutants that he wasn't even sure how they would react. In fact, he couldn't remember how the last ones acted. Sometimes he hadn't realized what he forgot until he tried to remember.

"That's interesting." He wasn't sure if Lestrade was being sincere.

"Regardless, the body?" The DI motioned to the dead woman and Sherlock scoffed as if it weren't important.

"I highly doubt she's going anywhere." He assured him before going to work. John watched him with appreciation. Mutant or not, he was an extraordinary man.

"Stop it." Sherlock hissed lowly. Instantly, John was sure it was aimed at him, but Lestrade gapped as if this had happened before.

"Don't think, DI. It's annoying."

"Do you have something or not?"

"Yes, in fact." He smirked, obviously pleased with himself. John was hit with a sudden barrage of information, nearly causing him to black out. Even so, it was absolutely amazing. Sherlock saw all of that in only a few minutes?

"God dammit! I told you not to do that anymore! Why can't you just talk like a normal person?" Lestrade demanded, attempting to sooth his throbbing head with a push to the temples.

"Normal people are boring and this way you understand better."

"If I don't fucking pass out first."

"I'm sorry," Though he didn't sound serious at all. "I'm excited."

"That's brilliant." John breathed passed his pain. Sherlock looked honestly surprised. He offered no response, though supposedly because he wasn't entirely sure how to handle a compliment, and turned back to the officer.

"There's no suitcase." Even when given the exact view from Sherlock's eye, that didn't mean they were any closer to understanding how he worked. Information was useless without understanding and that was something even Sherlock couldn't communicate to them.

"What do you mean there's no suitcase? There's got to be a suitcase." He rushed out of the room, yelping at the workers for whatever it was he was looking for. Halfway down the stairs, he had an epiphany and was gone before John could properly follow what was happening. The little army man limped down the stairs with Lestrade on his heels.

"Sad to say, but he's long gone."

"Fuck! Great. Now I have to walk fucking home." John snapped viciously. Like before, it was gone in an instant leaving behind only puzzlement. Lestrade eyed him.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

"Dissociative identity disorder. It's a side effect. Sorry." He apologized quickly.

"You do that a lot?"

"Only after," John sort of shrugged in a way that explained to Lestrade exactly, but kept the normal people around them completely unaware. He could already tell. These people weren't friendly towards them. They didn't even know Sherlock was a mutant and already treated him awful.

"It'll stop eventually." He assured the man. Even if they did find him, John would never give away anyone else. He'd simply forget. Sometimes he simply forgot a lot of things. Sometimes he wondered if his real name was even John Watson. It was pointless to draw on it, though. Right now, he needed to get back to the flat.

"Main road's that way." Lestrade pointed out. "And- be careful with Sherlock. If I were you, I'd think about getting a new flat." The warning flew over John's head. He wasn't concerned. In fact, he rather liked Sherlock. He'd never had someone _give _him memories before. He'd taken them and had them offer to be taken, but never given. He actually liked it. There was no harm in at least trying. Hopefully he wouldn't forget how to get home or where he lived, again.

He heard a phone ring, but thought nothing of it. Then another and a third. They were following him? John peeked into the phone booth, distrustfully glancing about. This was bad. This was really bad. Don't answer it. Don't answer it. They found you don't answer it.

"Hello?"

"There's a camera to your left. Do you see it?" Oh god. He was right. He needed to run and he needed to run now. If it weren't for his damn leg, he would have to. John would have ran in whatever direction got him away from here quickest. It wasn't until the government started taking serious action against mutants did John realized how much of a coward he was. It was frightening. No one knew what they did with mutants, what they would do with them and that was far more frightening than ever knowing.

"Who is this?"

"The camera. Do you see it?" John swallowed and glanced in the direction he was told. The camera turned away from him.

"To the right." The camera turned away.

"And the corner." This was getting worse. He was going to be kidnapped and no one would even know.

"And the last one. Now get in the car." John glanced to the street and the waiting car. This was government and he debated with himself about attempting escape again. Ultimately, it would be rather pointless. They'd hunt him down regardless. Slowly, he climbed into the tinted window car and hoped for the best. There was a woman in the back seat, texting away on her phone. She paid him no attention. He wasn't sure if that was good news or not.

Act natural. No. Act normal. Normal was good. John was totally normal.

"Hello." Alright. That was not normal. She glanced at him, taking in an eyeful before looking away again.

"Hi."

"Do you have a name?"

"Uuh. Anthea."

"Is that your real name?"

"No." She laughed and John decided that this wasn't going well. He was brought to a warehouse and he'd given up any hope of making out of this alive. This was what he expected. Taking him off the street where no one noticed him and killed him in deafening silence. If he was going out, then he was taking their memories with him. Oh, who was he kidding? That wouldn't make him any better than them.

He climbed out and bravely limped his way into the cold, empty room. On the other hand, it didn't look like a government trouble. One man? He stood a few feet away from him, calming himself.

"I know about you, John Watson."

"Okay." No violence. That was a good thing.

"You moved in with Sherlock rather quickly. Should we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who are you?" This man obviously knew more than he should, and that umbrella looked far more dangerous than it should. Another mutant, perhaps.

"Someone who's very worried about him. I'm sure if you asked him, though, he'd say his arch enemy." Arch enemy? He was with the government, then he must know about Sherlock's mutation. Very worried about him meant he definitely knew and was attempting to keep him under control. This could go either way. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he checked it without thinking.

"I'm sorry. Am I disturbing you?" The stranger questioned with little inflection but John could read between the lines. He shook his head a little.

"No." John answered simply. Lovely, Sherlock finally remembered him. He wanted him back at the flat. That would have been nice and much easier to do with he hadn't fled without him.

"I have an offer for you."

"An offer? No thanks."

"You don't know what it is." Considering everything that had happened so far, it wasn't going to be anything good. "For a generous amount of money, I would like you to keep tabs on Sherlock."

"As in spy on him?"

"If you would like to think about it that way, then yes."

"No thank you." Another buzz attracted his attention again and he earned a frown from the stranger.

"I know about Sherlock and I know about you and your ability." The man explained. John wet his lips a little, glancing away from his phone and took a moment to organize his next sentence. Never admit to anything.

"Are you?"

"Certainly not." He looked disgusted by the very thought. John tried not to scowl.

"I think it's time for me to leave." John stated plainly. He was allowed to leave without a fight, thankfully. He had no idea what this was about, but his paranoia turned to anger swiftly. He was sure this was just to intimidate him and to intimidate Sherlock. He couldn't get close to Sherlock, though. Meaning the man wasn't nearly as powerful as he tried to put on to be. Unfortunately, that gave John little comfort.

"Take him home."

o-o-o

"I –uh- just met a friend of yours." John peeked out the window nervously. Sherlock glanced toward him and instantly, he felt a stab of invasion in the back of his mind. The taller male scoffed, but didn't respond to his question.

"Can I use your phone?"

"What's wrong with yours?"

"The number could be recognized." Sure. He should have known that. He wasn't sure if he liked Sherlock invading his mind like that, either. Surely he wasn't one of those mutants that went off using their abilities as they felt like it.

"Don't. Don't do that anymore." John insisted firmly.

"Pardon?"

"I don't want you reading my mind without my permission." Who knew what he was doing in there. He brought his memory back this time, sure, but he knew telepaths to be very powerful. He didn't know a lot of them, but the ones he did know about, their abilities were a lot more than simple mind reading. Sherlock seemed mildly insulted.

"Of course. If that's what you want." He agreed. It wasn't an issue of trust; it was an issue of privacy.

"Thank you."

"Phone." Sherlock instructed, holding his palm out. With an agitated sigh, John placed it in his hand. The man returned it to him almost immediately.

"Text the number on my desk over there."

"Mrs. Hudson has a phone."

"Oh. I tried calling to her. Didn't hear me."

John Watson had no idea what was going on. He glanced at the piece of paper in his hand and the phone in the other and decided that he was probably texting someone. A small glance around assured him he was in his new flat, but he couldn't recall the last several hours. Not unusual at all.

"John?" Hazel eyes turned to the man immediately and he blinked away his confusion.

"Yeah?" John responded completely normal.

"Is this going to happen often?" So this man knew. That was a relief. Well, he was his flat mate after all. It wasn't usually a good idea to tell his flat mate when there was something wrong. This was a new thing, though. John wouldn't have told him if there was a chance he would be in danger, meaning this man was a mutant too.

"Uh. No." He finally answered. "I- before we met," Which admittedly was only yesterday and was a very broad sort of field. "One of the flats I checked out led to some trouble. He tried to blackmail me and things got a little violent." John explained. "I protected myself and got more than I bargained for. You know?" He tested the waters gently. Sherlock nodded.

"Telepath, remember? Wrong choice of words."

"Right. Well when I take memories, sometimes my own get knocked free. He must have had some awful memories. My mind is trying to get rid of them."

"And it's not doing very well. This is the second time today." Sherlock informed him, though he hardly sounded worried. Not that he had any reason to be worried.

"Yes. Well. I'm not controlling it. It must have been traumatic." Even as old as he was and as long as he'd had his mutation, he was still getting use to it. Of course, it didn't help that he'd managed to wipe his memory completely clean twice in his life. That set him back a couple years in completely understanding himself.

"Do you want me to help?" His flat mate offered almost excitedly.

"What do you want to do?" John questioned back nervously. Sherlock motioned him near and despite his anxiety, the little army man allowed him to touch fingers to his temple.

"I'll fill in your memory like I did earlier and I could try to get rid of whatever it is you are. I can probably do it without wiping your short term memory."

"Probably is the word that worries me in there." He murmured with a small sigh. He nodded a little. There wasn't a lot Sherlock could damage, he supposed. Nothing more than he could do on his own. It might have been caused from not using his gift in such a long time, he couldn't exactly risk it in the military, but there was no telling. If he really had picked up some bad memories, then things would sort them out by themselves, but if it was something else, he had no idea how bad it would get. Sure, it was his short term memory now, but how long until his mind completely self destructed?

"Done." Sherlock smirked. John stared at the green grey eyes hovering so close. Already?

"Actually," He started slowly, touching a palm to his head. "That's much better." He hadn't felt this good in years. It was a little startling. His mind was clear and he didn't have the feeling that his thoughts weren't his own. It was almost as if he were normal. John never actually wanted to be normal, but it still felt nice.

"Much better. Thank you, Sherlock." John smiled gently.

"My pleasure." Sherlock would use any chance he could to show off his mutation. "You're a very interesting man." There was no doubt about that. John chuckled a little, turning back to his phone.

"You wanted me to text this number."

John Watson saw the potential for a great friendship with this man. Anyone that could ease his paranoia was a great man in his book.


	2. Apocalypse by Divine Intervention

Perhaps in a Different Life

Apocalypse by Divine Intervention

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, blood, religious views

"Shit!" One minutes, he was a little medic doctor, returning from the war to a new civilian life and the next, the sky opened up and the ground started swallowing people. He didn't even know what happened to the rest of his unit. John would admit, he'd never been particularly religious, but with the world in ruins and the damned imps running about, he was slightly more open to the idea. It wasn't just the inhuman creatures, either. Humans were going absolutely mad. As a doctor, he did his best to help whoever he could and more often than not, it got him into a lot of trouble.

Such as today, for example. He tried to help a little girl climb out from under some rubble and as soon as she saw he had a first aid kit, her 'friends' jumped out of nowhere and promptly robbed him of it. As he tried to escape, he was shot. Which, John thought was a little unnecessary! What on earth could they make from shooting him? They already had his things. John didn't stick around to find out, darting down the street as quickly as he could. He was outnumbered and unarmed. He was brave, not stupid. With one hand firmly pressed on his bullet filled shoulder, he ducked behind an abandoned car.

It was dangerous to be out in the open like this and even more dangerous to be bleeding in the open. He might as well have stood in the middle of the street and waved a huge white feather for the demons to come and get him. At this rate, he wasn't sure what was worse. The humans with the guns or the things with the teeth.

"Hey!" The voice startled him and hazel eyes rapidly searched out to find it. "Over here, darling." The hushed tone said again. John turned to face the cracked door of the building behind him. An older looking woman peeked out and hurriedly motioned him in.

"Come on. You're safe in here." She promised. John didn't trust her, but inside was better than out. He darted inside and she slammed the door closed behind him, locking the stained red wood with too many locks to count. He pressed his back to the wall, taking note of the hoard of crosses lining the doors and windows. He wasn't sure if they actually worked, but the place only seemed slightly wasted.

"Oh. You're hurt. Come on. They'll fix you right up." She promised, ushering him up the stairs by his good arm. John followed. It wasn't like this day could get any worse. If he was lucky, they were good people. If he was unlucky, they'd end it quickly. He was met with quiet the sight. Two men sat playing chess, one tall and thin and the other short and surprisingly well dressed for the world to be ending. Another man sat at the window, also dripping with red which John now realized was blood, with gun in hand. A third napped on the couch, older and dressed as though he were with the police. The entire room's eyes were on him at once.

"Told you." The shorter male scoffed, removing a white piece from the chess board. "Mycroft isn't stupid enough, or kind enough, to help a child. It's your turn." His partner sighed heavily, giving a final look over the chess board before turning his attention to the wounded man.

"What's your name?"

"John Watson. I was a-"

"An army doctor. I can tell. Not that it really matters anymore. Do you have anything?" The man continued on. John pressed on his shoulder a little firmer, attempting to keep his blood in and consciousness.

"I have a phone. Some bullets, not counting the one in my bloody shoulder. Everything else was taken." He explained, though they seemed to already know. He didn't expect them to help him, but hopefully having something useful would warrant at least a swift kill.

"We're not going to kill you. Lay down on the table." The man jerked his head toward he little kitchen before rolling up his sleeves and nodding at the older woman. John would see the bandages around his arms and couldn't help but worry.

"Molly!" The older woman called as she hurried back down the stairs. A drink was shoved in his face and John gladly accepted it. Even if it would only numb the pain a little, it was better than nothing.

"We're not about to waste our meds on you. No offense." The man murmured. John simply nodded in agreement. He didn't need them that bad. He'd been shot at before and wounded only once, but it wasn't any better this time around. In fact, he was sure it was worse, but he couldn't complain. It was his own fault. He should have known she was drawing him in. Not to mention, if they did have medication, it was best saved for a life threatening emergency.

He lay back on the table a little, allowing the man to rip open his jumper at the bullet hole and examine his wound more thoroughly. Another drink numbed the pain a little more. John watched a shy looking woman hurry in with a little kit.

"Don't worry. Hooper here used to work in a morgue."

"I don't think that makes him feel better." The man at the window assured them. He was right. That didn't make John feel any better. He tried to calm himself down as he heard them rustle about. Finally, there were hands on him again.

"Alright. We're going to remove the bullet." He explained. John nodded, steeling himself for the pain. The male, younger than himself, held down his wounded arm to prevent him from moving about. She was obviously not used to working on live people, her hands shook as she began to dig out the lead piece. He bit down on his good arm to prevent from screaming.

"I'm sorry!" She yelped.

"Stop! Stop! You're making it worse!" John finally yelled back, clenching his arm against the man holding him down. Molly pulled away. She had no idea what she was doing. Thankfully, she stopped and John caught his breath.

"I'm sorry. Most people I work on don't move." She admitted. He supposed it was suppose to be some sort of joke, but John was in no mood for a joke. He flexed his arm against the man again, making sure she hadn't severed anything important.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. But don't. Just don't. Promise me, you'll never try to help someone again. Please."John pleaded. She grimaced. He shakily took the tool from her hand with his good arm and forced himself to sit up a little. The man released his arm and he gently went to work extracting the bullet. When it was finally out, he proceeded to lose consciousness.

He wasn't out for very long. Long enough for one of them to clean and bandage his wound, thankfully. When he lifted his head again, the older man was hovering over him. Instantly, John checked his shoulder again and then went to ignoring it completely. The more he thought about it, the more it was going to hurt. He could only hope it wouldn't get infected.

"You okay?" The man asked. John only nodded and accepted another drink to drown his pain.

"Good. We could use a doctor, if you couldn't tell. Sorry about Molly. She's the best we have at the moment. Not, uh, not good with people. I'm Greg Lestrade. That's Sherlock Holmes," He motioned to the taller male who'd held him down. "Jim Moriarty," His shorter chess partner. "Sebastian Moran," The man at the window. "And the woman was Mrs. Hudson. You know Molly. Sally, Anthea, and Sarah live next door. We knocked down the wall downstairs connecting the two. Mycroft Holmes lives here, too, but he's out at the moment." The man explained. "You're free to stay here if you want."

"Why are you all still here? The city was supposed to be evacuated."

"To where, exactly?" Jim snorted. "If I'm going to die, I'm going to do it somewhere nice. If my bloody building hadn't come down, I would have, too." He complained.

"He means," Lestrade corrected. "It was pointless. This is happening all over the world. We might as well stay put and hope things get better."

"Or at least that we don't slowly starve to death." Sebastian murmured.

"It's not that bad. There's plenty of room. The demons leave us alone for now. The angels don't exactly help, but they don't make it worse. The only thing we really need to worry about are the Satanist and Sebastian is pretty decent at keeping them away. We go out for food every so often, scavenge, the like. It works." Lestrade shrugged a little. John finally managed to force himself up, examining the little room.

"Sarah was a doctor, but she got hit in the head pretty bad. Her hand-eye coordination is way off for now. She probably would have cut your throat on accident. That was what happened to the last guy." Lovely. John really wanted to know that. "She cleaned and bandaged your wound, though. You should be fine." He promised. John relaxed a little.

"Yeah. Okay. For now." He agreed. He couldn't exactly go anywhere in this condition and, he would hate to admit, they were right. If this was going on all over the world, then where was he going to go? They seemed to have it all figured out and until he decided what he wanted to do, he could help them out.

"Great. How exactly did you get shot?"

"Well," John started, allowing the man to help him into a proper chair. He pressed his back firmly against it. "I got back a couple days before it happened. I just wasn't religious enough to get raptured, I guess. The sky opened and people started hurting so I helped them out. There was this little girl. She was trapped under some wreckage from a building. I went to help her and when I did, some thugs came out and stole my bag and my gun."

"She have bandages on her face?" Lestrade motioned to the cheek and mouth area and John nodded.

"Yeah."

"Stay away from them. They're Satanist. They're humans who willingly help the demons. For every person they convert, they earn praise. If they can't convert, they kill. Humans all over the world are going with them. Since they got left behind, they think god forsake them and turn to, well, the devil."

"Lucifer, is the correct term." Jim added in.

"Whatever."

"And you guys?" John didn't exactly converse with the demons. He knew nothing about what was happening. Only that people were hurt and he could help.

" Neither." Lestrade assured him.

"Jim's a psychopath who believes he is the higher power. Sherlock is a sociopath that knows nothing about religion and is sure that there is a reasonable explanation for this. Seb is going to hell anyways, but he'd follow Jim to the grave. I have no idea what to believe. I'm just one of the crazy people hoping one day I'll wake up and this will all be gone."

John frowned. Not the best choices, but he was interested in choosing sides right now.

"Mycroft!" Seb called from the window.

"Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock passed on.

"Got it!" She yelped back. He wasn't surprised that the door required some time to get open. John wasn't sure if it helped, but it they were alive. He listened to the metal clicking down stairs and the quiet murmuring of the other Holmes. The taller, older male appeared at the top of the stairs carrying a large duffle bag. Once again, John found himself being scrutinized.

"We checked him. No mark." Lestrade assured the other man. John hadn't been aware he'd been checked. He wasn't even sure what they were checking for.

"He's not one of them, obviously." Mycroft dropped the bag on the blood soaked table. Whatever he wasn't, John was glad for that. The man might have been able to nonchalantly mention the psychopaths in the living room, but it was anything but forgotten. It was no wonder they were still here. The man rummaged through the bag, stacking up boxes of food, tea, and fresh water.

"No luck with the gardens, yet. Regardless, we're going to need more seed."

"Okay. I'll add it to the list. The tub's warm for you." Lestrade informed.

"Thank you. Give him some food," Mycroft instructed. "You probably haven't eaten in a while."

John would have refused, but his stomach reminded him that, indeed, he hadn't eaten in a couple days now. He'd been too busy to even think about it, not to mention he wasn't exactly going to risk going into buildings he didn't know were deserted or not. Who knows the kind of things he'd run into.

"You really don't have to do that. Food is probably scare and-"

"There's plenty. You can help collect tomorrow." The older gentleman responded simply. With that, he disappeared into another room and John turned his attention back to the friendly man.

"Don't worry. Stress and all that. Not that anyone here was socially competent before. I'll heat you up some food." Quietly, the man went to work with a little fire and what smelled like porridge. John would happily eat anything at the moment. He took another glance around, aimlessly flexing the arm attached to his wound. Sherlock and Jim playing chess, though it was more staring than anything else. Sebastian at the window, now smoking. And, of course, Greg cooking.

"What's with all the blood?" He finally asked. Lestrade glanced over his shoulder and then to the window.

"It keeps the demons away."

"And how does it do that?" Dare he ask. The man hesitated.

"You know how you could mix sugar or honey with poison to kill off some insects? It's kind of like that. They're fighting out there; the angels and the demons. They kill each other all the time and for whatever reason, the angel's blood burns. We don't really know if it kills them, though. So basically, we've pissed off just about everyone."

"You said honey."

"Oh. We mix in a bit of virgin blood to keep them from coming through the walls." John's eyes wandered toward Sherlock again, catching onto the bandages of his arm. Lestrade nodded.

"Yeah. Exactly what you're thinking. Just a little bit, though. And it's his idea."

"And that works?"

"I can't say why, or how, but yeah. Sometimes the imps will come around and start being nosy and the blood draws them in, they start touching it, realize it's poison, and runs off. Just like that. The demons are a little worse, but they're really not interested in us." The relief in his voice was almost painful. John wasn't sure if he could live like this. He wasn't sure if he wanted to live like this. He didn't have any choice. He could only hope he would be useful.

"Incoming. It's that brat again." Sebastian informed. He pushed the window open, giving a cautious look around before focusing on the ground. John watched curiously.

"Scram kid!" The man yelled out. "I'm tired of wasting bullets on you!"

"I just want to talk!" A voice came back. It sounded human. "Just let me in!"

"I said scram!"

"I'm just trying to help you! You can't be seriously enjoying living like that. You're tense. Look, I can get you some more cigarettes, a cold beer, some _cocaine._ I know you're bored in there. I can hear your frustrations. This is exactly what you want, James. To set the world on fire. Think about it. You can torture anyone you want and no one cares." The voice was getting closer, but Sebastian was still set to the same spot. No one seemed even the slightest swayed by anything he was saying.

"I ain't gonna warn you again!"

"Ooh! John Watson wants to play!" John's skin jumped. How on earth did he know he was here?

"Don't listen to him." Lestrade assured him.

"Come out, come out, I know you're suffering! I wonder how long you'll keep your arm. Infections are bad around this time. I know where your sister is. Where your family is. Do you want me to take you to them?" The voice insisted sweetly. John swallowed. He hadn't heard from Harry since he'd been back. He hadn't heard from anyone since he'd been back.

"Can he really?" He would admit; that was tempting. He was dying to know if they were okay. No matter what his sister had done before, it didn't warrant ignoring her now.

"I don't know." Lestrade confessed. "He offers all kinds of things, but we don't really know if he can."

"He can." Sherlock murmured. "He really does want to help. You should go with him if you really want to know."

"Sherlock!"

"He's kind. He'll probably get himself killed, anyways. Those people are still human, more or less, and at least they're alive. Don't bother sticking around if you're not going to be useful." This was a cruel man. He made sense, sure, but cruel none the less. John shook his head.

"I'll stay." He had no idea why they would do to him, but it wasn't that alone. He wasn't that selfish. "It would be pointless. Harry's probably dead already." It was painful to think about, so he tried not to. Unfortunately, that was working about as well as ignoring his arm was. "I'm more useful here. If you guys go out there on a regular basis, you'll need a doctor. I can scavenge and I do know some useful tips from being in the military so long." He explained. Sherlock searched him with pale eyes before returning to his game. Jim motioned to the man in the window.

"Shoot him."

"God dammit." Seb cursed under his breath. "I'm running low." Never the less, he took the shot and it went silent. John wasn't going to rethink his decision. He couldn't think about later right now, he needed to think about now and surviving was at the top of his list. Lestrade placed a bowl before him, the still bloody table, and John was glad he wasn't the queasy kind.

"Thank you." The room filled with silence besides the small movement of the chess pieces against the wooden board. He would have to be careful about his arm getting infected. He needed his first aid kit back. Eventually, he brought himself to question his new friends.

"Mind if I ask how you got here?" John questioned as politely as possible. Lestrade glanced over his face with a grimace. He sighed, though, and nodded.

"Yeah. Sure. I was a Detective Inspector for the Scotland Yard." He swallowed firmly, adverting eyes down. "They got my wife. We'd been fighting a lot lately, but I didn't want this. Not at all. A couple of us got boarded up into Barts. Sally and Molly and some others. They, uh, they didn't make it. Sherlock and his brother came and found us and here I am." He shrugged a little, as if he really didn't know why he was here.

"It was better than being alone and I- I don't want to die. I didn't want to die." Lestrade sighed and John held back the need to apologize for even asking. "It's pointless now. Even if we survive, there's not enough people left for things to go back to how they were. Things will never go back to how they were. I'm too old for this." Typical reaction. John hadn't been around a lot of people, but those that he had all showed the same signs of 'I worked so hard for nothing'. He wanted to say that things would get better, but even John knew that probably wasn't true.

"Don't worry. You'll probably be dead by the time this is over." Sherlock murmured as some sort of comfort. Very misplaced comfort, but there none the less.

"Great. That makes me feel better." Lestrade huffed, but in some bizarre way, it did seem to make him feel better.

"I was a consulting detective before this. The world's only consulting detective." Sherlock scoffed almost bitterly.

"He was bloody brilliant, too, when he wasn't being a prick." The use to be DI assured him.

"And I was your consulting criminal." Jim battered his eyes in a false sort of way.

"You stole that from me." His partner huffed.

"Oh. I was your archenemy. It was natural to the circumstances."

"I wouldn't say archenemy. Stalkish and a little creepy, but I hardly see how playing a little game with a little bit of explosive constitutes you as my archenemy. Besides, Mycroft is more of an archenemy than you were."

"Oh posh. Mycroft is your brother. He can't be your archenemy. Your brothers." John wasn't sure if there was any logic behind this argument and furthermore, if it would escalate to a physical fight. No one seemed worried, so there was no point him worrying himself.

"Jim liked to blow up buildings. It was fun." Seb snorted.

"It certainly turned you on, my little sniper man." Jim teased back. The taller man pinched the bridge of his nose almost pointedly.

"And Mycroft?" John averted the conversation away. Sherlock sighed heavily.

"He used to be the British government."

"Well, you have quiet the collection here. I- I don't suppose it's trouble to have three archenemies in the same house?" Considering he liked to blow things up, it seemed troublesome to have him near someone he didn't like.

"If you're insinuating that I am untrustworthy, you're very correct."

"He's completely tame, now." Sherlock murmured. "It's no fun if no one's chasing you and at the moment, there is no government to chase him, there are no people to terrorize, and as far as us being enemies, as much as he tried, I'm far too mentally stable for him to wrack and physical violence would only get him a houseful of angry people. Even his little pet over there would be in a run for his money."

Jim frowned dramatically.

"Despite being the root of all evil, and possibly made of leather and gold,"

"Oh god now. Gold is gaudy."

"Right, despite all of that, he is fairly useful. Between the three of them, we've basically gotten unlimited knowledge of generally useless things. Fortunately, some of those things include where things are and what we can and can't ear. Between the rest of us, we can manage not to let those two destroy anything." Lestrade chuckled mildly.

"They can't cook, make a fire, they're awful at scavenging, tend to get frightened like little girls when things don't happen the way they planned, have no idea how to build, sew, or anything else involving having to use their tender little girl hands." Both chess players pouted.

"As long as you stay out of the way when they start arguing, you'll be fine."

John could only offer a small nod. Such a strange little house he'd found himself in with strange people. He idly wondered what kind of trouble he'd gotten himself into, but the pros and cons of the situation were decent enough. He was alive, there was food and shelter, and people. Real, honest to god people. He'd do all he could to help and hope that he never had to be a doctor for these people. It was going to be a long, long time until the end of the apocalypse. He might as well settle down while he could and make friends in high places.


End file.
